


Hallelujah

by Arcturis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Blood and Violence, Brother Feels, Dark, Dean Winchester Bears the Mark of Cain, Dean Winchester Has Issues, Dean Winchester Has Mental Health Issues, Dean Winchester Whump, Demon Blood Addict Sam Winchester, Emotional, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Hurt Dean Winchester, Gen, Guilty Dean Winchester, Guilty Sam Winchester, Heavy Angst, Hurt Dean Winchester, Mark of Cain (Supernatural), Post-Hell Dean Winchester, Protective Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester Has Issues, Sam Winchester Has Mental Health Issues, Sam Winchester Whump, Sam Winchester on Demon Blood, Season 9, Song Lyrics, Songfic, Torture, Tortured Dean Winchester, Tortured Sam Winchester, Violence, Whump, song!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-23 00:15:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17672777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcturis/pseuds/Arcturis
Summary: Sam's fighting off his craving for demon blood after getting an accidental taste during a case. Dean's fighting off the Mark's craving for sadism and violence. These two clash in the worst of ways and basically I suck at summaries. This is just a dark venting fic, guys.





	Hallelujah

**Author's Note:**

> TW: Violence and self-harm. Lyrics and inspiration from Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah".

_I **’** veheardtherewasasecretchord_

_ThatDavidplayedanditpleasedtheLord **.**_

_Butyoudon **’** treallycareformusic **,** doyou **?**_

_Itgoeslikethis **:** thefourththefifth **,**_

_Theminorfallandthemajorlift_

_ThebaffledkingcomposingHallelujah **.**_

 

 

Sam’s breathing was hard and his muscles twitched in agitation. His hand clenched and unclenched the handle of the demon blade. The action was compulsive. He’d been frozen in this state for close to an hour.

It was back.

After so long, after _years_ of control, he felt that desperate scream of desire. It rose again in a furious wave and he gasped raggedly, shuddering.

“Stop,” he whispered. “Please, just stop. Not again.”

The hunger for demon blood set his veins afire and it burned. God, did it _burn_. He and Dean had finished a demon case a couple towns over. It had been therapeutic for him, for both of them. Something to focus on for Sam and an outlet for the Mark’s bloodlust infecting Dean. But then blood had sprayed onto his face and he’d tasted it, for the first time in so long. He keened quietly, folding in on himself as a stronger wave of need washed over his senses. It grew and grew and the blade in his hands twitched over his forearm, almost of its own accord.

Pain blossomed and he gasped, the sensation enough to clear his head momentarily. He should go to Dean. He should, he knew that. But after so long, he couldn’t bring himself to enter his brother’s room, cuffs in hand. He couldn’t face that shame, to show his older brother that he was still just a junkie at heart. So the blade flashed again, tracing another line of crimson parallel to the first. Sam carved a symphony of pain, composing a hymn of scarlet to combat his corruption.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Three more joined the two, resulting in five. He was slightly heady with endorphins and he noted absently that, perhaps, he’d gone too deep with the last. But it had been slow, drawn out and he’d gotten carried away. Red dripped steadily on the ground and he could almost see the blackness as a physical taint in his blood. It made him ill.

 _I should clean myself up,_ he thought numbly, but he was lost, watching the slim river trickle from his forearm and onto the floor. So when Dean pounded on his door, he jerked hard in alarm and looked around with wide, anxious eyes.

“Sam? You good?”

“Yeah,” Sam called hoarsely, trying to keep from stuttering. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“You’ve been in there for ages, man. What are you doing?”

“Nothing, I’ll be out in a minute.”

There was a pause and Sam could almost see the suspicious gaze piercing through the wooden door. It terrified him.

The pause lengthened, but then he heard Dean. “I’m making coffee. Hurry up and get out here.”

“S-sure thing,” he called, cursing himself for how unconvincing he sounded. He heard Dean’s footsteps retreat and he let out the breath he was holding, heart hammering in his chest. He’d kill him. Dean would kill him if he found out, he had to clean this up. When he couldn’t hear Dean anymore, he darted across the hall to the bathroom and locked the door behind him, grabbing some rags and isopropyl alcohol, pouring the chilly liquid over his bleeding forearm.

The alcohol burned more than the blade had and he grit his teeth against a low moan as a fresh wave of pain washed over him. The liquid mixed with the blood, making him bleed more freely, but he had to make sure the wounds wouldn’t become infected. He poured some more, taking a deep breath against the fire. The final laceration concerned him. He’d have to stitch it up if the wrapping didn’t make it stop bleeding, but even with how deep he’d cut, he felt the hunger rise up in an insistent, threatening creep and a single despairing tear fell down his cheek.

 

 

_Well your faith was strong , but you needed proof._

_You saw her bathing on the roof._

_Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you._

_She tied you to her kitchen chair_

_And she broke your throne and she cut your hair_

_And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah._

 

 

When he walked into the kitchen, his heart fell into his stomach. Dean was staring at the coffee maker, a hand gripping and rubbing at the Mark earnestly.

“The demons didn’t help?” he asked, leaning up against the wall, arms folded.

“For a hot second,” came the reply. “But there was only four of them between us.” Dean sent a joyless half-smile towards Sam, but the lukewarm expression melted off his face at the sight of Sam’s pale demeanor. “Sammy, you feeling ok?”

“What? Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You don’t look too hot, man,” Dean’s face crinkled into a look of concern but, as he strode towards his brother, he didn’t miss the way Sam would have backed up if he hadn’t already been pressed against the wall. He saw the bob of his Adam’s apple as his brother swallowed hard and the way he avoided Dean’s eyes. “What’s going on with you?” Dean asked, frown deepening. “Dude, you hearing me? Look at me, man.” Sam’s eyes darted to his and back to the floor, but that was all he needed for Dean to go cold.

He crossed the small distance between them and pushed Sam firmly against the wall, grasping at his shirt.

“Dean! Dean, the hell are you doing, get off of me!” Sam was shouting, angry and afraid, but Dean ignored him, trying to rip his shirt open, but Sam shoved him away, a myriad of dark emotions flowing over his features.

“Show me,” Dean demanded. His voice was curt and cold and Sam flinched.

“Show you what?” Sam was being intentionally evasive, shifting agitatedly.

“Now, Sam. Don’t try to blow me off, I see your eyes. They’re dilated to hell. I know when you’re itching for a fix and I know when you’ve taken care of it yourself.”

Sam felt his knees go weak, but he met Dean’s eyes with defiance and unbuttoned his flannel shirt, drawing it open to show his chest. Dean walked back over, running his fingers over his chest and stomach, tracing old scars and searching for new wounds. The inquiring touches weren’t gentle, as they’d been in times past. They were hard, probing and he ignored the way Sam kept flinching.

“Show me.”

Sam glared at him. “I just did.”

“Yeah, and they weren’t there, so show. Me. Where. Now. Before I go looking _myself._ ”

Sam was breathing hard and fear flickered in his eyes, replacing the anger for a moment before balancing with it and he shrugged off his jacket and shirt, leaving his torso bare and revealing the white bandaging on his left forearm. Crimson was already seeping through the white and Dean just stared for a long moment. But then the Mark pulsed fiercely and he grabbed the bandaged area, ignoring Sam’s shocked cry.

“You drink any? Don’t you dare lie to me.”

“N-no. No, Dean I swear! I got a few drops when you shot the one and the spray hit my face, but that’s all!”

“I told you to come to me with this! Look at this mess, you went too deep!”

“I need this!” Sam shouted hoarsely. “It’s better than the alternative!”

Dean’s face twisted and he squeezed Sam’s forearm, wrenching a shout from the younger Winchester. “This is what you need? You need to mutilate yourself? Is that your new drug of choice, Sam? We had a deal!”

But Sam didn’t answer. His hazy, dilated gaze was fixed to the point Dean gripped him and Dean squeezed harder. “Answer me!”

Sam fell to a knee, chest heaving with stressed pants. “Not about mutilation,” he forced out hoarsely. “You know that. Dean, you _know_ that.”

And Dean did. He knew, but he didn’t understand. After a hundred and sixty years in the Cage, he didn’t understand how more pain was the solution to any of Sam’s issues. But then he realized Sam wasn’t trying to pull away. If anything, he was pressing his arm into Dean’s hand with a wild, desperate hunger in those expanded hazel eyes. Shocked, Dean pulled away and Sam uttered a small, anguished sound of loss. Dean swallowed convulsively for a long, stretched moment before hurrying out of the kitchen and locking himself in his room.

 

 

_But baby I ’ve been here before._

_I ’ve seen this room and I’ve walked this floor._

_I used to live alone before I knew you._

_I ’ve seen your flag on the marble arch_

_And love is not a victory march._

_It ’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah._

 

 

Dean’s breath was coming in harsh gasps as he paced around his bedroom. The space was too small and he felt the walls closing in on him. He was getting claustrophobic, but he didn’t dare leave. Not when the Mark was urging him on, focusing on Sam’s need for pain and the scars that Alistair had carved into his soul.

Though Dean would never admit it, the taste for inflicting pain he’d developed in Hell had never truly gone away. He’d learned how to apply it in a safe, professional manner over the years. It was incredibly useful for hunting and for getting answers when the recipient was reluctant to divulge them. But the Mark had taken that aspect of his personality and run with it. Now that desire was leaking over into populations he typically shied away from in horror. Innocents. People who pissed him off in bars. People who just rubbed him the wrong way on the streets.

And Sam.

He’d had nightmares about it, saw scenes enfolding when he stared off into space, lost in his own head. Lately, as the Mark’s power slowly took over his senses, he dreamed about using his particular Hell-groomed skill-set on his little brother. The sadistic glee he felt in his dreams melted to horror upon regaining consciousness and he would start those days off lurching for the toilet before he vomited all over his bedroom floor, followed by chugging half a bottle of whiskey.

Cain’s Mark pulsed again and Dean gritted his teeth, coming to a stand-still. His every muscle was alight with fire from the strain of resistance but it was getting so damn hard and seeing Sam using him as a tool for his own masochism had broken some resolve within him. Sam was making it harder for Dean to resist and he didn’t know whether to scream at or applaud his brother. He hardly knew what thoughts came from him or the Mark anymore.

He rubbed hard at his forearm in frustrated indecision. Did Sam want this? Yes. Did Dean want this? Hell yes. Guilt weighed heavily with that knowledge, but the answer remained the same. But what would this do to their relationship? What would this break between them? He shouted his wordless outrage, throwing something he didn’t bother to identify across the room, listening to it shatter. He held his head in his hands and shouted again, but the Mark pulsed again, stronger than it had done in ages, and his resistance broke into pieces. Growling, he grabbed his own pair of handcuffs and stalked out of the room, grabbing Sam where he’d left him in the kitchen.

Sam struggled against the harsh grip on the back of his neck. It made him uncomfortable and the anger and desire in his brother’s eyes was making him nervous. “Dean what are you doing, let go of me. Dude! I said let go!” He twisted out of Dean’s grasp, but Dean decked him in the face, before grasping at his neck again and leading him in a demanding pace towards the gym. He thrust Sam through the door, making Sam stumble and whirl around, half-crouched in a defensive position.

“The hell is going on with you!” he shouted.

But Dean just threw the handcuffs at him. “Put those on,” he ordered. Sam frowned at the predatory note in his older brother’s voice.

“Answer me, Dean. What’s going on with you. There’s nowhere to lock me up here, I’m not putting this shit on.”

“You want pain, Sammy?” Dean’s voice was low and he refused to look at him. Sam frowned at him, keeping his defensive posture. “You seemed pretty eager for me to dole it out in the kitchen.”

Sam paled slightly, shifting. “I didn’t … you were just the source. I’m sorry, Dean. I know I should have more control, you just - “

“Save it, Sam.” Dean met his eyes, just for a moment, and Sam saw the tortured indecision in his eyes. “Do you want pain or not?”

Sam’s eyes widened as he understood what his brother was trying to offer. “Dean … “ he said uncertainly. “You don’t have to … this is my problem, not yours, I … “

“Answer the damn question,” Dean spat out through gritted teeth. His hand was rubbing the Mark and suddenly Sam understood.

“I … yeah. Yes, Dean. You know that. I can’t … I can’t help myself, not like this. Locking me down just wouldn’t have done it this time, I’m sorry.”

“Then this’ll be good for both of us,” Dean whispered tensely, closing his eyes. He looked up when he heard the sound of cuffs snapping shut and looked up to see the metal enclosing his brother’s wrists. Their eyes met, exchanging twin expressions of hunger, guilt and understanding. _Help me,_ their pleading eyes begged of each other and Dean unbuckled his belt, sliding the leather through the rings of denim. He jerked his head up at a hook high up on the wall and Sam turned, throwing the short chain of the cuffs over the hook. He tested the bindings carefully, nodding nervously as it took his weight. He rested his forehead on the wall, breathing anxious and erratic.

“How many?”

“I don’t … Dean, I don’t … it’s not like I’ve ever done this before, you know?”

“Sammy, are you sure … are you sure this is what you want?” Dean’s voice had taken on a note of hesitation and fear, but the hunger reared harshly in Sam’s mind, burning in his veins and Sam gasped, sagging slightly. “Dean!” he called hoarsely, the call dripping in desperation. He let another hungry moan, tugging against his self-inflicted bonds. God, he needed it. He craved it so much, and if Dean didn’t come through, he’d run right out the front door for a fix. “Dean, please!”

Dean’s resolve slammed back into place and the Mark sang in triumph.

 

 

  _Maybe there’s a God above_

_But all I’ve ever learned from love_

_Is how to shoot at someone who outdrew you._

_It’s not a cry that you hear at night_

_It’s not somebody who’s seen the light._

_It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah._

 

 

The crack of leather on skin echoed in the large room and jerked Sam against the wall. A surprised shout escaped him before he could cut it off. Dean wasn’t holding back, not even a little. _Good,_ Sam thought fiercely as another surge of need shot through his system and a high keen escaped his lips. Another crack, another line of fire across his back, but he swallowed back the sound of pain, keeping resolutely silent. Three more lashes, each effectively beating off a surge of dark desire for demon’s blood. The war between addiction and pain left him gasping raggedly, his hands clenching convulsively at the chains binding him to the wall. He’d broken out in a cold sweat and was shaking with that familiar, fierce need.

“Dean!” he begged. A white-hot line of pain exploded on his back and he cried out sharply. Dean’s footsteps sounded behind him and a finger traced along a fiery path on the skin of his shoulder. He pushed back against Dean, who pushed him right back against the wall, a large hand splayed out across his abused back. Sam moaned and Dean felt the tremors running through his younger brother, muscles twitching and shuddering erratically.

“I broke the skin,” Dean muttered.

“Fine,” Sam forced out. “S’fine, Dean.” He practically felt Dean’s glare as a physical sensation, but heard him back off, heard him worrying the leather belt in his hands.

“Maybe this wasn’t a good idea,” Dean said doubtfully.

“It’s this or I fight my way out the front door,” Sam said hoarsely. “And you know I’ll win. Dean, please. _Please._ I know you need this too.” He heard Dean’s hard swallow, followed by the whine of leather hurled through the air and his back arched sharply at the hard blow. It was getting more and more difficult to bite back the cries of pain and they weren’t even ten lashes in.

 _You’re weak_ , he heard a voice croon. Lucifer’s voice. _You used to hold out so much longer with so much worse. Look at how soft you’ve become, Sammy. It’s pathetic,_ Sam bit back a sob, but the Devil disappeared in a brilliant flash of agony, followed swiftly by another and the fire in his veins began to subside.

Dean saw his brother begin to relax and hesitated. “Had enough?” he asked carefully, but saw Sam shake his head. His breathing was labored and his voice was strained, but Sam wasn’t done.

“Not yet,” he forced out raggedly. “Keep going.” Dean forced back a sigh of relief. The Mark wasn’t done with him either.

After ten, Sam lost the ability to bite back his moans and cries of pain. After fifteen, the lashes bit into his skin, leaving thin lacerations and slim trickles of scarlet down his back. After twenty, he heard the belt drop and thought Dean had had enough, but a punch to the back introduced a new genre of pain. Sam convulsed, his body unable to decide whether to arch into the blows or escape them. His cries blended into gasps as the breath was knocked repeatedly out of his lungs. He could tell Dean was holding back, but only enough to keep from breaking his ribs. As it was, he could feel the bruises forming layers upon layers until the very air upon his skin made him feel like screaming.

“Enough,” he rasped out. The burning in his veins was gone in favor of the pain flowing through his body. “Dean, enough. I’ve had enough.” He heard his brother collapse against the wall with a moan of … something. Satisfaction? Pain? Guilt? Sam didn’t have the time to figure it out as his legs failed him and he collapsed against his restraints. The bite into his wrists and the strain on his battered back forced a strangled shout and he heard Dean leap to his feet, unlocking the handcuffs that bound him. Sam half-collapsed to the floor, Dean taking as much of his deadweight as he could until they were both laying on the floor; Dean on his back with Sam awkwardly on his side and his head laying on Dean’s chest.

“Sammy, you stupid son of a bitch,” Dean bit out hoarsely. “Why’d you let me do that?” Sam just shook his head, too exhausted and pain-ridden to answer. Dean tried to cradle him closer, but Sam groaned through his teeth at the touch, flinching sharply and Dean froze, spouting apologies. “Christ! I’m sorry, Sammy. Goddammit, this was such a bad idea, look at the state you’re in!”

“Dean,” Sam’s tired whisper cut through his brother’s self-deprecation with adequate efficacy. “Knock it off. I asked you to. Or you asked me and I told you yes. And I meant that. I needed this. _You_ needed this. It’s fine. We’re fine.”

But Dean wasn’t fine, and neither was Sam. They both lay there in exhaustion, worrying over the sanity and safety of the other. Neither of them should have fallen this low and they knew that, but too many of the right cards had fallen into place and triggered both their lows at the same damn time. And the worst part was that neither of them knew if they’d do it again. The possibility was there and it was high, particularly in the next few weeks, but this was a dangerous game. They both needed an outlet and for that outlet to be each other … well. It could lead down the type of dark roads that haunted their nightmares. But they’d bury that under mental layers and not look at it too closely. They’d turn away and keep this event and their black needs kept under mental lock and key.

They were Winchesters, after all.

 

 

_Hallelujah._


End file.
